


Nature's First Green

by FearfulSymmetry6



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Character Development, Character Study, Coming of Age, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Morally Grey Narrator, Mostly Canon Compliant, Multi, Narcissism, Politics, Regret, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, political corruption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28064598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FearfulSymmetry6/pseuds/FearfulSymmetry6
Summary: Set after the events of Season 1.A young supe named Marc Golden’s hatred of Vought has led him directly to the Boys. Using his abilities, both super and otherwise, he is chosen to take Deep’s place as Brightflame, the newest edition to the Seven. While there, he works to take down Vought from the inside out and feed information to the Boys, but finds even the most basic fundamentals of who he was slipping away in favor of all the fame, influence, and pure, red-hot power.
Relationships: Original Female Character(s) & Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Stormfront (The Boys)/Original Male Character(s), The Homelander | John & Original Male Character(s), The Homelander | John/Original Male Character(s), The Homelander | John/Original Male Character(s)/Stormfront (The Boys), The Homelander | John/Stormfront
Kudos: 12





	1. You May Be Right

Marc knew it was dangerous to talk to someone from Vought.

They could find out where he and the rest of the guys were or arrest them or totally take down everything they’d worked for.

It was stupid and reckless and all-round, just plain idiotic. But they didn’t have a leader and they needed a plan. Butcher was gone. He was the only thing holding the boys together as a team, a coherent force, the goddamn fucking Spice Girls, as he would say.

So forgive Marc if his decisions weren’t exactly the wisest at this moment in time.

Their best shot, at least in everyone’s mind, was to get a man on the inside, someone who could tell them what was going on. That fell on Marc, the only supe on the team.

He joined pretty late, after the rest of them. After years and years of trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life, Marc found some semblance of something. Vought ruined his life in every single way. He wouldn’t be the person he was today if it weren’t for how awful they were. For one, he’d be dead without goddamn Compound V, but sometimes that’s better.

Not that he wanted to die anymore. Marc did, for a while, but he was past that. It’s just that after a certain period of time, life is too much. You’ve just been around too long, been stuck in the same state for so long that it hurts, especially when that state leaves you powerless.

Who wants to listen to a seventeen-year old? Aren’t they all impulsive assholes? So who the fuck would leave anything important up to them? _I’m seventeen and I’m crazy_ , he thought, smirking at the reference to his favorite goddamn book. If only Jonas could’ve read that book. He would’ve loved it.

The thought of Jonas was crumpled up and shoved into the back of his mind. He was working. No time for sadness. Marc didn’t do any of that emotion shit.

Kind of ironic that the book his mind always went to was the one he appeared to be stuck on the wrong side of. There isn’t anything wrong with fire. Unless it’s used to burn books. Then, it’s a goddamn menace. Never, in his literal decades of being able to create fires, had Marc Golden burned a book. It was a matter of principle — there was nothing more important than a piece of literature. Nothing has the sheer capability to make change like a book does.

In a way, that was the team’s goal. The supes couldn’t just be murdered, like what Butcher and Frenchie wanted. They had to be political, be diplomatic. Kill one supe, and ten would line up to take his place. The only way to take these fuckers down was to prove that there was something inherently wrong with supes as a whole. And what better way to do that than through a really fucking good tell-all, Bob Woodward’s wet dream? Maybe he would publish it anonymously, create a mystery around it, the kind that creates legend after legend. That was one way to get and stay famous. But not quite Marc’s way. Not the Golden way.

Though, in order to publish a tell-all, in order to get and stay famous, he needed to get into Vought. He needed to tear them apart from the inside. He needed to earn their trust and betray them, one of the many talents debate has been good for.

MM had someone who Marc could talk to, someone to get him into that godforsaken company. Apparently, Mallory had told them about some kid, a girl who was the only one to successfully hack into Vought. If he was being honest, Marc didn’t even know how computers and shit worked. Like, he could use them quite well, but he really couldn’t comprehend why exactly they did what they did.

It’s just something that happens when you’re in his situation of being born in the fucking 1930’s but looking, acting, and feeling like a teenager. Pretty much you’re a kid in every way except in the years of experience you have. It’s fucking complicated in almost every single way.

Most surprisingly, not that many people are in Marc’s situation.

“Golden, if you really want to join the Seven and be a fucking hero, we need to find this girl,” MM told Marc, frowning. He knew how stupid it was. But he couldn’t deny that this had the capability to help the boys beyond imagination.

“I don’t want to be a supe. You know that. I want to spy for you assholes and maybe, just maybe, help us to take down these cunts,” Marc explained for the five-thousandth time. It had been an insane process, with him needing to tell them the plan over and over again, since they really didn’t understand.

But it was really goddamn difficult to get. Marc himself didn’t even get it, not quite yet. It was convoluted and messed up and would probably fail. They’d never get any information out of him, though. If — more like _when_ — he got caught, those fuckers would torture him to death, but he was prepared for that. At least he hoped.

Death never scared Marc Golden. Pain did, though. He needed to remember that it wasn’t about him anymore. He was allowed to be terrified if the fucking Homelander was beating his head in with his eyes glowing bright red. But he would not say a word. This operation was bound to fail at some point or another. It was only a matter of time.

“What’s the girl’s name? Where can I find her?” he asked.

“Mallory said that we could use some encrypted line to contact her, but only in emergencies. Here, use my laptop.” MM slid it over to him. “All you need to do is—”

Marc groaned exasperatedly, interrupting him. “Look, man, can you do it? I’m sorry, I just have some issues dealing with . . .” His voice trailed off, cheeks going red, as he thought about how totally inept he was in these times, especially when it came to technology. But he was sure as hell not one of those old dumbasses who couldn’t open Microsoft Word without getting thirteen viruses and signing over their entire 401(k) to a Nigerian prince.

Well, at least he could talk to people and not sound like an old-fashioned asshole. Marc was fairly liberal, especially for someone from the forties. Hell, when he was seventeen, believing that maybe there should be some semblance of equal rights, he was a fucking radical. _Seventeen and crazy_ , Marc thought once more. Books always found their way into his head when he was stressed.

“Fuck, kid, you need to learn how computers work,” MM commented before pulling open his computer and typing in a few things.

“I know how computers work,” he defended himself in vain. “Zeroes and ones, ints and floats, HTML. You know, all that programming shit.” Frenchie was the only decent hacker among them and Marc had heard him say all those things before. All he really knew was that zero and one were binary, and one was true and zero was false. The rest of it might as well be in Klingon to him.

MM laughed softly. “Whatever you say, kid. Here, send her a message.” Marc stared at the screen blankly, looking at the different components of it while trying to figure out how it worked. “Do I need to teach you how to type?” he joked.

“No, shut the fuck up!” He couldn’t help but shove him back. “Thanks for the help, though. I’ve got it from here.”

His eyes darted across the keyboard, trying to think of what to type. He couldn’t do anything too tough. Something she’d understand. Maybe he’d just use Baconian. It would take a while, but better that than being found out. That was usually easy to find out, though. Once you know it’s Baconian, it’s fairly easy to decode. Morse would also be easy, maybe with a Pollux cipher applied to it.

Marc did all three.

It took way too long and was so goddamn complicated, but he took a quick and easy message — “Butler Seven P.M. Three Days” — and turned it into a mess of numbers.

Codes had always been sort of his thing. He was really good at them; no one knew why. Even when he was younger he could always send these horrorshow messages to friends. His teachers used to hate him so much since he always passed notes they couldn’t understand. That probably wasn’t the only reason Marc was the bane of all of his teachers’ existences. It probably had something to do with his incessant sarcasm and questioning nature, two things he highly prided himself on.

MM looked it over after he sent it, pretending to understand. He didn’t expect anyone to get it, only people who he wanted to. This girl was supposed to be some sort of genius, so she’d probably be able to figure it out. Hopefully, at least.

It took her only fifteen minutes to reply.

Fifteen fucking minutes!

The stupid message took him at least a half-hour to write. And all she said back was '10121985'.

Of course, Marc had no idea what it meant. It was definitely not in Morse code since there were more than four nonzeroes in a row.

God, he must’ve spent hours on that, working it in every possible way, only taking breaks to help plan out his supe alter-ego. Not that that was much more fun or even any more relaxing. It was like writing a story, but a story that needed every single goddamn detail and if it had a plot-hole, he’d die.

Hughie was the most help since he was a total geek when it came to comic books. Sure, Marc had read some of the original Soldier Boy comics when he was a kid right near the beginning of the war. Hell, everyone did. Wencely Prep, his old school, literally banned comic books to the point that you could make a real fortune selling them. All the older students who were allowed to go into town at nights and on weekends would buy a bunch of issues and sell them for twice the price.

“You need a name,” Hughie said to Marc one day while he was checking out that stupid goddamn code. “Something that makes you sound scary, but heroic and really goddamn American. Especially if you want to rise high.”

“The Fireman,” Marc deadpanned, a thoughtful look donning his face. It was all a joke, of course. Firemen put out fires; he did the opposite. Though, Vought’s the kind of place that’d condone book-burning and suppression of knowledge and all the awful shit Bradbury warned everyone about back in ‘53. They’d love to have someone as skilled as him to utterly wipe out their enemies and annihilate any possible threat, whether that be a novel or a fellow supe.

Hughie shook his head. “That’s just about the worst possible name I can think of. How about . . .” He furrowed his eyebrows, deep in thought.

“Brightflame,” he said before Hughie could spew any shitty names his way. It was the name he’d thought up back in ‘47, right after the incident with the V happened and Marc thought he’d be a hero. But first came the experimenting to see what he was exactly, which he didn’t like too much. So he left. Marc was the son of Alexander Golden; no one could force him to do anything. He knew he couldn’t go back home, though. He wouldn’t age ever again, at least until someone found a cure.

All he wanted was a normal life. All he wanted was to grow up.

“Not bad,” Hughie commented. “You a fan of the comics?”

He smiled. “Used to be. Back when they first came out. You know, the old cheesy Soldier Boy comics with him punching Hitler in the face as the cover.”

A look of skepticism, then realization. It was easy to forget that he was actually really fucking old. It was also really fucking easy to forget that in almost every way, he was still a kid. Most people saw him as an adult, which was nice sometimes, but he still needed to be young. “I used to collect the old ones.” He grinned, then ruffled Marc’s hair. “Alright, time to figure out the costume.” He groaned. This really wasn’t Marc’s sort of thing. He never knew anything about what to wear, and usually just wore sweaters and button-downs or even just his old school uniform, which Frenchie incessantly made fun of.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. And it doesn’t even need to be good. They’ll get you a real costume once you get onto the team. Here, just use black and red leather and sew it together.”

“Do I strike you as the kind of person who knows how to sew? My skillset is limited in some ways, like computers and cooking.” Hughie bit back a laugh. One time, Frenchie was making cookies and asked Marc to help. He did what he did best — started a massive fucking fire. The kind that takes a whole battalion of fire fighters to put out. Or one very powerful young supe.

His powers were great in almost every way. Marc could start and put out his own fires. It kinda sucked not to be able to put out everything else, but it was far better than most. Other than the immortality, the rest of his powers were pretty standard. He could fly, which would be great for getting around, but he sucked at it and could barely get two feet off the ground without fainting. Marc’s skin was a little invulnerable, nothing near Homelander or Starlight or Maeve. But, like he said, better than most. The same thing went for his strength.

Being a supe — having powers, that is — wasn’t bad in it of itself. Just the drawbacks, the bullshit emotional stuff that gets to you after a while, was pretty rough. Not yet, for Marc at least. That’s what he liked to pretend.

“I don’t need a goddamn spandex suit. I’ll just say I don’t have one.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” Hughie said. “To be a hero, you need an outfit. That’s the way it goes. You can’t just not have one. Everyone would know your identity.”

The fucker had a point. But at this point, Marc figured it would be best to go in as who he was, Marc Golden. That name still carried some sway, and they knew how powerful he was. They knew that they needed him on their side, or he’d fucking destroy them. He was his father’s son, he had the voice of an angel but the soul of Satan himself. Anyone like that goes far. Anyone like that has the capability to take over the world.

Dad never got the chance. Some bastard shot him. And that fucking bastard _suffered_.

Marc wanted to do good though. He just didn’t have too much of a moral compass. If the ends justified the means, it was fucking golden. If it was good enough for Machiavelli, it was good enough for him. You couldn’t really have a moral code if you wanted to take down Vought, or any corrupt government or company. They’d do anything to destroy you; you needed to be willing to do the same.

“Hughie, relax. It’s fine. I’ll go in under a fake name, with a fake history. But I’ll reveal myself as who I am — Marc Golden, son of Alexander Golden. It’ll be fucking perfect. They’d have to hire me if they knew who I was. I was one of the first.”

“Fine. Whatever. But you should still meet with this hacker chick. She could help, fill in a bit of what you did while you were gone and help fool some of the lower workers at Vought.”

“Course, man. I’ve been looking for a date. It’s been far too long since I gave a girl the time.” Hughie forced out a laugh. Dating and sex and all that shit always made Marc really uncomfortable, so he joked a lot, which never went too well. It just made everyone laugh nervously and pretend it never happened.

The latter was upon them. Hughie just moved on with the conversation — thank God — and said, “Just don’t fuck it up, Marc. And if you betray us . . .”

“. . . you’ll hunt me down and torture me to death. I get it. Hughie, we’re going to take these bastards down.” The two men grinned and high-fived. They were going to fucking bring down this goddamn corporation and all the supes they were protecting.


	2. A Matter Of Trust

The key to the code hit him like a ton of bricks. There was a girl, around his age like MM said she would be, reading that goddamn comic book.  _ Watchmen _ . A calculating smile curled across his face as he took a seat across from her. “‘Rorschach's Journal. October 12, 1985’,” Marc quoted in a gruff, gravelly voice. “‘Dog carcass in alley this morning. Tire treads on burst stomach.’”

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asked, her voice skeptical. 

He shrugged. “I just noticed you were reading it. I really like the comic. Its themes still ring true today.” Hopefully that was enough confirmation of who he was for her.

“And what themes might those be?”

“You know, abuse of power, not everyone in a cape is a good guy, that sort of thing.”

She smiled. “Before we begin, I have one more question.” Marc raised his eyebrows. “Look, I need you to tell me the truth on this.” She seemed genuine, like it was actually going to be something serious. Instinctively he tensed and glanced around at the people sitting near them furtively. She was smart enough to know not to say anything outright, not in front of all of these people. Though suspicious, he nodded. “Are you the Zodiac Killer?” Marc burst out laughing. “No, seriously, man. That code was insane.”

“You cracked it anyways . . .” He ended on an upnote, prompting her to tell him her name.

Hesitating for a moment, she finally replied, “Eliza. Eliza van der Elsen.”

“Shit, that’s quite the name.” Not so much as his Prussian name. It wasn’t his legal name or anything, just what his father said his name would have been if they were still in Prussia (and it was a  _ damn  _ good thing they weren’t there). Melchior Goellenzern is just about as European as it got. Though Eliza van der Elsen is a close second. “Very regal. Are you a princess or something?”

“No. What’s your name?”

Before answering, he studied her for a moment. Was she the type who knew her American history? Then again, everyone knew Alexander Golden. He was pretty much at the same status as Bobby Kennedy or Alexander Hamilton (at least before the musical). If the two of them were to be working together, she’d need to know his name, though. “Marc Golden.”

“Like the secretary of state who got killed back during World War Two? Didn’t he have a kid named Mike? — Matt? Wait, no, it was Marc — who went missing?”

Well, that was quite the surprise. Marc thought she might’ve known about his father, but not him. He “died” before he could do anything great. One day he would, though. Once they found a cure or a way for his cells to age again. He’d pick up where he left off. First, a public announcement explaining everything. And then, he’d do what his father knew he was meant to do — become the President of the United States. Preferably the youngest one.  _ Maybe the first fag in office _ , a little voice in the back of his head told him. Marc shrugged it away, visibly cringing.

“Yeah. Secretary Alexander Golden. That guy was awesome. Would’ve made a great president, but he wasn’t born here. And his kid was named Marc, I think. Disappeared right after the war, almost as big of an investigation as the Lindbergh baby.”

Eliza sighed. “If only he had steel-toed boots.”

“John Mulaney, right?” Marc asked. “You know, I saw that show back at Radio City Music Hall. It was the greatest night of my life. That guy is fucking horrorshow.”

“When you were, what, thirteen?” she joked. “Aren’t most stand up shows for people eighteen or older.”

Marc was seventeen now, which meant he was seventeen then, but he’d humor her. “Pardon, but I was fifteen years old and had a fake ID, just like everyone else my age.”

“You got a fake ID to see John fucking Mulaney?”

“I got a fake ID to go to the bar near my old boarding school,” he corrected her. “Kid Gorgeous was just a bonus. I don’t see why this matters. We have a supe to make.”

“Broccoli cheddar? Or would French onion be more to your liking?” He stared at her blankly for a few moments, not understanding whatever she had to say. “Holy shit, Marc. Soups! Like chicken noodle, you know. It’s a pun. Supes as in the heroes and soups as in the food. Come on, Marc. The code had me thinking you were smart.”

A defeated expression flashed across his face at her blow to his pride. “I  _ am  _ smart. Just not in all ways. You’re probably not a genius in everything. Like, can you translate the Aeneid and recite the first verse from memory?”

“Can you?” she countered, smirking.

“No shit. New England boarding school, man. You learn all the classic shit there.” She still wasn’t convinced. “Fine. Here goes nothing.  _ ‘Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris . . .’ _ ” Marc continued, hitching a little near the middle, but finishing it out without fail. Not that it would’ve mattered if he did. She didn’t strike him as the diligent ancient linguist.

She nodded, impressed. “Okay, you’re smart again.” He beamed with pride, then realized how idiotic he was if this random girl could break and build his self esteem in only a few moments. “Here, do you have a name in mind?”

“Brightflame. Since I can shoot fire out my hand. I’d demonstrate, but that doesn’t seem like the best idea in a crowded library. Also, how the hell did you know what I was talking about when I suggested this place? I didn’t think you’d know from just the word ‘Butler’. Hell, if I didn’t write it, I’d think it was the ramblings of a crazy person.”

“Oh, it was most definitely the ramblings of a crazy person. It required quite a bit of speculation and a lot more knowledge than memorizing six lines of Latin. I just figured that you were a goddamn genius, so a library would be the best course of action. Hell, I ran it through all of my decryption programs and it failed them all. I had to do the first part by hand, Marc! The Baconian made me write a whole new program once I realized which letters were A’s and which were B’s. But, let me just say that I’m relieved that you’re a scrawny fourteen-year-old, not a burly Californian with a bag on your head.”

Marc’s cheeks reddened. “I’m seventeen, Eliza. Plus, how old are  _ you _ , anyways?”

“Sixteen,” she muttered.

“There, I’m older than you. Now, let’s get out of this library and discuss taking down the most profitable industry in America like civilized people, alright?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll be the perfect gentleman and take you out for dinner. There’s this steakhouse I used to go to with my dad and brother, Keens Steakhouse. It’s in Midtown, but I promise it’s worth it.” Keens used to be where the Golden family went to celebrate. When his father was elected to the senate or got a position with a president, when Jonas got into West Point or was promoted to colonel, when Marc got into Columbia or won best delegate at International Assembly Simulation. He still went back there, whenever something good happened, but sitting alone in the back of the restaurant, a whiskey sour in his hand, eating a New York strip steak just didn’t hit the same as the few actually good dinners with his father. On those days, there were no ‘A-minuses aren’t A’s, Marc’ (Calculus was a rough class) or ‘What the hell went wrong in debate?’ (He’d lost all but one round) or ‘I don’t care that your teacher is an idiot; you still got a C on your essay’ (All he said was that poetry mattered, which it did).

“Look at me, Marc. I’m in no shape to go to a fancy restaurant. And, by the looks of it, neither are you.” He straightened his red-and-blue striped tie defensively. “Okay, fine, you’re wearing a suit, but it looks like a school uniform. Wait, is it a school uniform? Shit, there’s a crest on your jacket. We’re supposed to be inconspicuous, and you’re dressed like a schoolboy in that stupid goddamn red flappy hat.”

He yanked the hat off my head and frowned. “My brother got me that!”

“Hate to break it to you, but your brother has a terrible taste in all things fashion if he thought that monstrosity was a nice hat.”

Marc’s eyes shot to his feet. “ _ Had _ ,” he muttered under his breath. She looked up and asked what he said. He repeated it, this time a little louder. “My brother  _ had  _ a terrible taste in all things fashion.”

“Is . . . is he dead?” The last word was barely a whisper.

“Here, let’s go into one of the private rooms to plan this out.” She nodded hesitantly and they walked to the North wall where there were some small rooms. The two of us sat down, and Marc explained, “Bastard died a war hero. General fighting in Ger-  _ Afghanistan _ .” He corrected himself before belting out the name of a country the US hadn’t been to war with for 65 years.

“Christ, I’m sorry for your loss, Marc.”

“It’s fine.” He managed a tight smirk that could be misconstrued as murderous. “Happened an eternity ago anyways. I can barely remember what he looked like.” That last part was a lie. Marc remembered every detail of his face; even after entire years of memories lost to time, he’d never forget Jonas. The two boys looked the same on the surface, same dark hair and eyes, same tannish pale skin. From there, though, they were polar opposites. Jonas was tall, strapping, with his square jaw and muscular frame, to Marc’s short, lean body and angular face. He used to resent that fucker so much.

She was smart enough to realize that this really wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. It went against most of what he knew about hackers and programmers and computer-y people in general. They were all totally socially inept — well, Eliza proved me wrong. “Here, why don’t we just plan something out here. We’ve got your name, now some information for the Vought database of supes.”

“Uhh . . . I have the ability to manipulate fire, and occasionally summon and put them out. I’m a little invulnerable, and stronger than I look. Is that good enough for powers?”

“Yeah. What’s your full name, the one on your birth certificate?”

“Melchior Marc Golden,” he replied without hesitation. He thought his first name was his grandfather’s first name or something. Or maybe his father just really liked that one German play about kids masturbating that got banned everywhere. It was interesting — his father named both Marc and his brother with traditional German first names, but made them go by their normal American middle names. Like he wanted them, but only them, to know where they were from.

Eliza snorted with laughter, “I’m sorry, what was your first name? Milky-what?”

He grimaced. “Mel-key-ore.” He spelled it out for her. “Like the musical with the girl from  _ Glee _ ?” She stared blankly at him. “Okay, you’ve never seen it. That’s fine. It’s an old German name, I think. Means ‘king’.”

“What’s your birthday?” she asked.

“The ides of March,” Marc said without hesitation. “Year was” — he did some quick subtraction to figure out when a seventeen-year-old in 2020 would’ve been born — “2003.”

“Okay, here’s where some of the lies come in. Where are you from? You can’t really say New York City, since they probably know the most about the city they’re headquartered in. It needs to be a city they know about, but don’t have many supes in.”

The only place he’d ever lived was the City or in middle-of-nowhere Maine. Then again, everywhere in Maine was the middle of nowhere. “Portland,” he blurted out, not really thinking.

“Oregon?” she clarified, and he shook his head. He forgot about the West Coast entirely. Marc had actually barely ever been there, in his nearly-hundred years of life. Maybe a week in the span of an entire decade. It really wasn’t his thing, especially LA. He hated that goddamn phony city. The only place out there he could stand was Seattle and the other Portland a little.

“Nah, Maine. I went to school north of there.”

She smacked Marc on the arm. “What are you, stupid? A supe from Maine? There’s nothing in Maine! If you go in there and say you’re from fucking Maine, they’ll laugh you out the door. What do you know about Chicago?”

He shrugged. “Nothing much. I’ve been there a few times for my father. We always stayed at the Ritz-Carlton or the Drake. It was really fun! I’d spend the day at the Field Museum or the Art Institute, or I’d bike on up to the Science and Industry. Sometimes, I’d follow high school groups and listen to the tour guides and all they knew, and the kids’ reactions. It always struck me as odd to see people my age at school in regular clothes. I was always a weird kid with no sense of fashion, so I’d end up wearing my uniform everywhere. Those kids were such asses all the time. No one listened or cared about the history.”

As pathetic as it sounded, he always did. Marc loved learning, always asked questions. It was real interesting stuff, and he always left museums knowing more than he did when he came there. Holden Caulfield was right about museums. They stayed the same, but you changed.

“Not ideal, but then again, what is? So, Marc Golden from Chicago?”

“Wait, no. Not Marc Golden. Another name. We’ll keep my real first name. So I’ll be Melchior . . .” He thought back to debate tournaments when he was in high school. Whenever he was short on evidence, he’d use his real first name plus the family name as a reliable source. This was no different from a debate, just scarier and with more fire. “. . . Goellenzern.”

Eliza gaped at him. “No. Just no. Why all this German bullshit? Your first name is literally milky whore! What the fuck?”

“Look, I don’t know why that’s my first name. It just is. And, please, never call me that again or I will literally laser you. Mel-key-ore. Is that so hard to remember or pronounce? Oh, and the last name is Goal-len-zern.” He repeated it once more, slower, then spelled it out.

“Vought won’t hire you with a name like that.”

“Yes, they will. I promise.” His strategy was most definitely not to hide. He’d return like the Prodigal Son to Vought. Edgar would have to know who he was. Maybe even Homelander. And no one would be stupid enough not to hire Marc Golden. Even when he was young, people knew who he was. He had a president write his college letter of rec. He went to get drinks with every single senator of repute. He was the hottest shit in D.C.

She raised her eyebrows. “Fine. Whatever. If they don’t hire you, it’s not like we’re worse off. Just the same. So, write it down. Melchior Goellenzern. My name.”

The two of them went on, going over backstory and different documents she had to forge. She thought he was insane not to take this seriously, but he knew exactly what he was doing. This was made to get him in the door. Once they found out who he was, they’d accept their golden son back with open arms and a great fucking job. It was just the average backstory — normal house, normal parents, normal-ish childhood. We had to include at least a few hints to strange fires starting around him from a young age.

Before they knew it, it was finished, and Eliza and Marc decided to go out to dinner at Keens, like what he suggested before. For the first time since the forties, he felt like he truly had someone he could see himself caring about in the future.


	3. Big Shot

Standing in front of Vought was quite intimidating. Marc had his computer and costume and a few books in his bag. The computer had some program Eliza had created on it to wipe all the incriminating data, but he’d probably recover everything once he got in.

“Uhh . . .” Marc forced out. He hated saying that. His father always said it made him sound dumb. But it also made him sound normal. He couldn’t be the 100-year-old genius capable of toppling an entire corporation. He was just Marc Golden, the teenaged superhero from Chicago. Well, not only Golden, but also Brightflame, Hero of Mankind. Damn, that had a nice ring to it. “I’m here for an interview. For the Deep’s spot?”

The lady at the front desk nearly laughed. “Is this a joke, kid? Do you have something scheduled?”

Because of a few clicks of Eliza’s computer, he did. “Yes, Miss, I actually do. My name is — err, I can’t tell you that. But I’m the hero Brightflame.”

She looked at him skeptically, which was to be expected. Brightflame didn’t exist. But when she looked him up and found the Chicago hero who’d thwarted robbers and murderers in a ratty costume, she immediately said, “Oh, sorry about that. I forgot about you for a moment. You know, I remember hearing about you on the news a year or so ago.” He smirked. She was coming up with false memories because she felt like she should know this. “Here’s an elevator pass. Why don’t you head on up?”

“Thanks so much!” Marc exclaimed, and took the card. It went to the top floor, where the Seven were. It scared the shit out of him, but was just about the most invigorating thing ever. Marc was probably going to meet Homelander and Queen Maeve and all the other assholes.

He took the elevator up, and got progressively more and more terrified each time the door opened. But it was never anyone special, just businessmen in dark suits. He looked really out of place, in a white button down and striped red-and blue tie. His old Wencely uniform. It was pretty ridiculous, but no worse than my fucking awful costume that looked like it was made by a mentally-stunted five-year-old. Or Vic the Veep. But if Marc was being honest, Vic  _ was  _ a mentally stunted five-year-old.

The Homelander stopped him in the hall. Just put his gloved hand out in front of Marc, as he was lost, looking for someone, wandering the halls. “Who are you?” Homelander asked sternly, but not too cruelly. At least not for now. If Marc got into the Seven, he’d probably let loose and totally drop his American Poster Boy persona and do something — Marc wasn’t entirely sure yet — to him. 

“Umm . . . well . . .” Marc did his best to look star-struck and amazed. “I’m . . . I’m Marc . . . Marc Golden. You might know me by my supe name, Brightflame. Oh, umm . . . sorry, I should’ve said that first. I’m . . . I’m here to audition for the Deep’s spot!”

He knew Homelander was an asshole. If he had it his way, Homelander would throw Marc out of a goddamn window. “You want to be on the Seven?” He nodded eagerly. “Alright, come on, kid. I’ll give your physical aspect of the audition.” Physical? Marc thought it was just a video and a demonstration of my powers. There was nothing about fighting someone.

The asshole put his arm around Marc and walked him to their gym. “Woah, are you going to spar with me? Christ, that’s been a dream of mine since I can remember.” Homelander was soaking up all my admiration like a sponge.

“Here, kid, put on your outfit in the rooms back there,” he told Marc, pointing at some rooms.

Like Marc had said quite a few times, his costume was awful. “Mr. Homelander, sir,” he said awkwardly. “My costume sucks. There’s almost no padding. Most of the time, I sneak up on people and disarm them, then fight. I can’t fight  _ you _ in my shitty outfit.”

“Okay, fine, kid. You can just wear your undershirt and slacks. If you do good, you’re in. If you don’t . . . well, let’s not talk about that.” Now, this man fully intended to kill a child, and one without any form of armor at that. Marc, to be exact. He wouldn’t let that happen. If need be, he would kill the fucker. 

He circled Marc , then threw a punch at his gut, fast and unexpected.

Marc blocked it gracefully, with ease.

“Nice job, kid. Where’d you learn to fight like that? Not Vought, I presume, since I haven’t heard of you before today. And you can’t really learn how to block one of  _ my  _ punches in some kids’ martial arts class.”

He was right about that. The truth was, Frenchie and MM taught Marc how to fight hand to hand. He didn’t really need anything other than fire, but now, it seemed like some martial arts would actually come in handy. “I got beat up a lot in high school. And, it turns out, after three years of getting kicked the crap out of, you learn a thing or two about defending yourself. Before you know it, you’re not getting the crap kicked out of you anymore.

“In high school? I thought you were twelve. How old  _ are _ you?” His older brother, Jonas, used to say he looked like a ten-year-old, back when he was fourteen. It’s the beard, or lack thereof.

“Nineteen,” he muttered, and prayed Homelander would believe me. It added two years, but he’d believe Marc. He didn’t quite have the identification to prove it, though. In all ways except experience-wise, he was only seventeen.

“Whatever you say, kid.” He threw a punch at Marc’s head. He ducked and kicked him in the leg with enough force to cripple a human. All the bastard did was grimace in pain, then keep attacking. That was good, though. Marc wasn’t really sure if he could feel pain. 

Swing after swing, punch after punch, the two of them persisted. It was pretty evenly matched, with Homelander’s superstrength and Marc’s fire and fighting skills. He had no idea how long it was. That was one of the things he loved about fighting. You never know how long it’s been. Everything blends into everything else. Time slows. Everything slows. All you have is you and your opponent. Any pain, any cuts or bruises fade into oblivion. But Marc always hated hurting people. Just seeing them getting hurt saddened him. He didn’t want to hurt anyone; he wanted to help people.

Homelander was an exception. He was evil, deserved to be hurt bad. Though Marc still felt a tug on his heart, like he was guilty of something.

His eyes were literally glowing red as they fought on. Marc thought Homelander might have incinerated him at any moment, but it wasn’t quite his style. He wanted to see how well Marc fought. If he could hold his own, he’d respect me. But Marc needed to learn his place. Push most of the sarcasm down, what his father constantly told him to do. Marc couldn’t be a threat, just an ally. Like a little brother. God only knows he was good at that. Not that he believed in any god.

And then, Homelander made the fatal blow. A superstrong fist right into Marc’s gut. Every bit of air left him, and he flew backwards.

Homelander sauntered towards him, thinking he’d won.

_ Not yet, old man, not yet _ , Marc thought.

His hand flamed bright orange, a plume of fire billowing out from his palm

All hell broke loose.

Fire shot forward, and engulfed Homelander. He tried to go forward, to get to Marc, to no avail. He bolted towards him, and made the winning shot. A sharp knee, right in the balls. The asshole keeled over and fell to the ground.

What Marc said next determined everything. He couldn’t be too cocky. Homelander had to like him. “Let’s call it a draw,” he said, smiling, and helped him up.

“Damn, Marc. You’re really good.” Marc beamed with pride. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us, kid. You’re on the Seven, Brightflame,” he said, not hatefully, and walked away.

The rest of the interviews went really quickly. It was just PR people talking to me. It turned out, they had someone in mind, but Homelander liked Marc himself. More likely than not, he wanted to mold Marc, turn him into his lackey. He’d make him think it worked. He’d treat him the way he’d treat Jonas, which he didn’t remotely deserve. Marc’s brother was a hero — a real goddamn hero — no superdrugs needed.

No one at Vought actually knew Brightflame as a hero. But he pulled up a few Chicago Tribune articles as evidence, and everyone knew exactly who he was, saying, “You’re such a great hero” or “I admire your work”.

The whole time, Marc was glib and charming, and remembered all his lessons from when he was young. Be respectful, show off what you know but don’t be arrogant, a warm smile can break even the most distrustful of people down. He was the son of goddamn Secretary Alexander Golden. He was made for deception and charisma.

Next thing he knew, he was sitting at the Seven’s table in Deep’s old spot. Hell, he didn’t want to think about the fucking rapist who used to sit there. Homelander was standing at the window silently, like he was getting ready to make a big speech.

Marc was right. Just then, he said, “Marc Golden, do you know what being in the Seven means?”

For a moment, he panicked, like he was going to tell me he had to suck his dick. If that was what it came down to, he was pretty prepared to. It would be awful and he’d hate it, but the supes needed to be taken down.

“Uhh . . . it means we save the world. We save America from domestic and international threats. We are the last line of defense.” Bullshitting him was fun.

Homelander shook his head. “Being in the Seven means you are now the face of Vought, the face of  _ America _ . Marc Golden will become secondary to Brightflame. You need to be prepared to make sacrifices.”  _ Was this guy about to make me fuck him? _ Marc thought. Him being a fucking fag would work to their advantage, though. “Brightflame, this is not just something for kicks. You need to fight actual fights. You need to become the perfect person, in the eyes of the people and the press. This will be the toughest thing you ever do. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “I am prepared to do anything for Vought and America.” Fuck Homelander, fuck the Seven, fuck Vought, and fuck America. This dumpster fire of a country was pretty much getting ass-fucked into oblivion by politicians who supported supes.

At the time, Marc’s father was right to propose a militarized supes bill. It was right after the War, and the country really needed the defense protocol, whether that be for a third German uprising or those fucking commies. A supe may have prevented Jonas’s death. He may not have been out on the ground or with too few men if there was a supe with his battalion. They could have annihilated the fucking kraut before anything too bad happened.

Homelander scanned him up and down, not quite like he was checking Marc out. “Anything?” Maybe he  _ was _ checking him out, in his weird sort of way.

“Sir, I’ve wanted to be one of the Seven since I can remember. And now . . . now, I’m here. You can bet your ass I will do whatever I can for this company. Vought will be my life from now on, mark my words, Mr. Homelander, sir.” God, Marc hated being this obsequious. It was so demeaning, so unlike him.

“What if I asked you to murder a child?” He bit his lip. He would never murder a kid.

Marc did his best to look surprised. “Sir, why would I need to kill a  _ child _ ? Did . . . did he do something heinous? Or will the death of a child prevent the death of millions of others? Because if there’s good reason, I’ll do it, albeit hesitantly, but anything for a good cause.”

“Let’s say I just told you to kill a kid. No reason, but it came from  _ me _ . What would you do?” Homelander tried to hold back a wicked smile. The fuckhead was enjoying this.

Being tactful was the key. Marc couldn’t agree too readily; if he did, he’d suspect something or think he was a loose cannon. But if Marc said I wouldn’t, he wouldn’t let him on. “Sir, you’re a good man, I think. You fight for what’s right. If you told me to muder a child, you’d have a damn good reason for it.” He nodded approvingly, and Marc gave out a relieved sigh, not too noticeably.

“Was I your favorite hero?” he asked, laughing.

“Sir, you’re  _ Homelander _ ! I thought . . . no, it’s stupid. Sorry.”

The man sat down at his seat at the peak of the table, right next to Marc’s. “Marc, you’re one of us. You can say what you were going to say.”

“I thought I might be able to be like you one day, as dumb as it sounds.”

“That’s not dumb. You’re on the Seven, Marc. You’re going to do really good here.” He smiled at Marc like he knew so much more than him, and left the room.

Not in the eyes of Stan Edgar, though. He expected that to be the case. Edgar knew who he was. A kid named Melchior Goellenzern with dark hair and fire abilities would have sounded oddly familiar to him. His suspicions would have only solidified after he saw Marc in the security cameras with his red hunting hat and old Wencely Prep uniform.

For about five minutes, the two of them just sat silently in his office, a glass of scotch in Marc’s hand. He had enough sense to take off his hat, since it was rude to keep your hat on inside, at least he thought. Maybe the only reason his father told him that was because he hated the goddamn hunting hat.

“Melchior Goellenzern?” Edgar asked, grimacing slightly.

“Yes, sir. That’s me. Sorry, the name’s fairly unpronounceable. German name. My father is from Germany.”

He nodded. “The Prodigal Son returns!” Edgar announced. “You little bastard. You took out $50,000 out of a Vought credit card and disappeared. That’s more than half a million dollars today. I’m wondering, though, how the fuck did you make it last? There are no records of you ever getting a job anywhere, not that you’d be very qualified in anything.”

“Well, I took twenty grand and invested it. Twenty became thirty, then fifty, then a hundred fucking grand, and so on. The other thirty was in a bank collecting interest for sixty years. And I made sure to find a damn good bank. 2.3% interest. That gave me a grand payout of, I shit you not, $69,000. And that was after I withdrew everything in my college savings account. As much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t go to college. I’m not a jackass, Mr. Edgar. I know how to survive and live and have a fucking good time while I’m at it.”

“So, you’re rich, huh?” Marc nodded proudly, his chin pointed up. “Then why come back now? Why, after all of that time, join us again?”

He shrugged. “Would you believe me if I said boredom? After all these years, there’s really nothing left to do. I figured, why not give this hero gig a try? Save the world, become famous, burn everything to the ground. You know, just a regular old day.”

“Mr. Golden, you betrayed us once before. How can we guarantee that you’ll stick with us this time?”

“You can’t,” Marc said bluntly. “There’s no way to confirm that I’ll stay. Just my word, I suppose. On my honor. On my father and brother’s grave. On the Goellenzern name. I’m committed to doing good now. I’ll do anything for the country, for America.” Not a single lie in the bunch. Marc wouldn’t be harming his honor at all.

Edgar smiled. “I thought you’d say something like that. Fine, Mr. Golden. You’re in. By the way, we’d been hoping Brightflame would come back for a while now. So we kept updating your suit, based on your measurements in the forties. Nothing has changed, I presume.” Marc nodded curtly. “Here it is.”

Marc glowered at the outfit in front of him. It was the kind of suit worthy of a God, better than Homelander’s, at least he thought so. It was mostly a deep maroon, with a black and gold lining. The shoulder pads were gold to match the belt. It was made of a tough leathery material, similar to Homelander’s. He ran his hand across the padded arm. “Holy shit, this is better than I could’ve imagined. Can . . . can I try it on?”

“There’s a bathroom through that door.” Edgar pointed at a thin wood door at the side of the room. Marc grinned, and pushed the mannequin with the suit in.

It took him ten fucking minutes to tug on all that tight leather. His maroon single-shoulder cape kept getting caught literally everywhere, the suit felt like it was squeezing him to death, the leather gloves made an insufferable noise whenever he closed his hands into a fist. Every single thing about it was uncomfortable, but —  _ damn  _ — he looked amazing.

Still didn’t feel as comfortable as his Wencely Prep uniform or his best tailored suit. He’d always expected to wear the latter to work every day, not a goddamn Halloween costume.

“Well, that looks great, Mr. Golden,” Mr. Edgar said. “Now, we need to be sure here. Do you want to be a supe now?” Fuck no. Marc hated these assholes. He wanted to take them down, hurt them bad. But this was the way to get that done.

“Yes, sir. I mean, why the fuck not? You guys are more famous than any actor and more influential than any politician.”

“I’ve heard stories of a boy from the forties, rich and powerful as it gets, hell-bent on being the President of the United States. He thought of Compound V as a curse, a life-ending miracle from Hell. If I was being honest, I thought Marc Golden left Vought to throw himself off of a roof.”

His eyes darted down for a moment. “Maybe he tried. Maybe the V didn’t just fuck his ability to live his life, but also his ability to end it. Well, I ended my life. I ended Marc’s life. In favor of something entirely new, entirely awful. The kid from the forties is gone, been replaced by the fuckwit in front of your. I’m more realistic. I know that the only thing left for me, the only way I can achieve even a semblance of Marc’s childhood goals, is to become a goddamn fucking superhero. No, I don’t want to become a superhero, not really. I just want some of my old life back, what I used to live for.”

“So you’re a liar? You don’t want to be a hero.”

“I want to be a hero. Just not a costumed one. But if it means I can help people, have some political influence, I’ll take it. I’ll take anything, at this point.”

“That’s not ideal, Mr. Golden. You have to know that you can’t just walk into a job interview saying you don’t want the job. Come on, I thought you were smarter than this.”

A smile curled across his lips. “You need me. I’m the perfect replacement for the Deep. I will admit, I need you as well. I need a cause again. Don’t get me wrong, I’m here for the politics. I’m here to go to fancy parties with senators and sway their views to make real change. Supes are a load of fucking bullshit.”

“As long as you never say that to the camera, you’re in. But you need to know that I don’t like you. You’re arrogant and apathetic and an utter smartass. I will not be your friend. I am your boss. You work for me and do what I say. Got it?”

What-fucking-ever. The fucker couldn’t phase him. Nothing phased him anymore. “Yes, sir. I’ll be the perfect little Homelander Junior for Vought.”

“Good to hear.” He stood up and shook Marc’s hand. “Welcome to the Seven, Brightflame.”


	4. Movin' Out

“Are you a religious person, Golden?” Homelander asked Marc out of the blue. They were sitting in the conference room, drinking scotch. After the third glass, he started to get a little woozy but Homelander was still going strong.

“Sorry?” Marc said. He wasn’t too used to people asking him me questions like that, or asking him questions in general.

“God? Do you believe in God?” he repeated, a little louder this time.

Marc shook his head. “My father did. I was raised Catholic. But, sir, I do not believe there is a man in the sky looking down on us.” A laugh escaped from between his lips. “Except for you, I suppose. But, sir, I know we got our powers because of the right DNA, not because of fucking Jesus Christ. Hell, I think we should have grown out of religion, now that there’s science to back it all up.”

“I completely agree,” he said, and Marc gaped at him. “The Believe Expo, Capes for Christ, all that shit is because people want a white blonde Christian defending America. There is no heaven or hell, no real gods. Except, of course, for us.” Homelander patted Marc’s thigh a few times, just enough to make him feel uncomfortable. He tensed, and did his best to squirm away from him. “Relax, son. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

He managed, “Thank you, sir,” behind clenched teeth.

“Call me John. That’s my real name, you know.” Marc nodded. John could actually be warming up to him, thank God. “No one calls me it anymore. I’m not sure if I miss it.” John let out a soft laugh.

He bit his lip. “Okay, John. But, can we not really talk about my past? It’s really touchy, and I didn’t quite have too happy a life.” That much was true, especially after Jonas died. His father liked him a lot, until he didn’t. Until he fucked up, did something so bad that it could have screwed over the Golden family name for generations. He almost undid everything his father and brother worked for.

“Marc, I understand. It’s alright. You can open up here. Nothing bad will happen to you.” He smiled. This was weird as shit. John was being . . . almost fatherly. “Golden, that’s an interesting name. Where’s it from?”

“Well, my father is from Germany. His name was tough to pronounce, so he changed it to something that sounded American. It really helped him in his political pursuits. He became a senator, even. Worked in my favor, being a supe. You guys are so fucking American. Your name is John and you were a little league champion! Look at Starlight — her name is Annie January. My father wanted that for his family.”

“What’s your family’s original name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

So much for not talking about his past. “Goellenzern. It’s technically Prussian, since my family is from what used to be Prussia.” Marc’s father was so pissed off the day their home country was disbanded. His family was an offshoot of the house of Hohenzollern, the royal family of Prussia, though it was very distant relation, barely even a connection. Still, it was one of the main things Marc prided himself on.

John silently regarded him. “And your father was a politician?” He nodded. “What about your brother? What does he do?”

This bastard was literally just ignoring what Marc had said before. He wanted to know every fucking thing about him, probably to make sure he wasn’t a threat to him politically. If Marc was a part of a political family, he may usurp his position. John wanted him controllable and just like him, but not too much so that Marc would blow him out of the water, since he was younger. People just tend to like a younger, but competent person.

“What he _did_ do. He died in Afghanistan. He was a colonel. After that, my father started to support supes in the military. One could’ve saved my brother. You know, I have never cared about anyone except for him, pretty much ever. Not even my own goddamn father. And that’s a fucking sad thing to admit.” _Don’t tell anybody anything_ . Holden Caulfield’s final words in the book rang in his head. _If you do, you start missing everybody_.

“Yeah, I know what that’s like, kid, to be totally alone.” Wait, that couldn’t be true. He had a perfect fucking white picket fence childhood.

As if John could read his mind, he said, “All that stuff from the documentaries and autobiographies is bullshit. I was raised in a fucking lab, as a fucking lab rat.” Holy shit, was this guy one of the first supes? Marc was on the verge of getting answers, only hours after joining the fucking supes.

“Why, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?” It may have been overstepping a little, but he could care less.

“I was one of the first children to exhibit powers, and they wanted to make sure I wasn’t a threat and not unhealthy,” he lied. But that still told Marc a lot. He was probably one of the first children to get Compound V, before they started paying parents to inject their kids full of it. It made sense; he was the oldest notable supe, other than Soldier Boy and the fuckers from World War II. _And me,_ he thought. “So they raised me in a goddamn lab surrounded by goddamn scientists.”

This was getting real good. “Damn, that’s fucking awful. I used to think I had it bad.” He laughed and poured Marc another drink.

“Now, do you know why I chose you to take Translucent's place?”

Marc shrugged. “I’m good at what I do. Fighting villains, taking down criminals, all the rest of the superhero shit.” _What was he about to pull?_ Whatever it was, it couldn’t end well for Marc. Homelander was just about as awful as it got, and he was always sadistic and cruel and downright awful.

“Yeah, sure, you’re pretty good, really smart and dedicated, but that’s just not enough.” His hand moved to his thigh once more, and squeezed it. Marc inhaled sharply and pulled away.

“D-don’t,” he stammered, face going red. He knew exactly what was going on. It happened to pretty much every supe, from what he could tell. “Uhh . . . I don’t think . . .” His voice trailed off, a pained expression on my face. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. At this point, I really needed to accept it.

Homelander smiled at Marc, but there was hate behind his eyes. “Look, Golden, this is just part of the process. Everyone in the Seven has to go through this at some point or another. Here, I’ll be nice. I’ll give you a choice. Either get down on your knees or bend over the table.” He stood and grabbed Marc by the jaw, squeezing and pulling his face up so his eyes met his. He inspected him, staring deeply at every blemish or zit or scar.

Marc thought he’d prepared himself for this. He was expecting it, but when it actually happened, he guess he was kind of stunned. “No. I can’t do this, John. Please. Don’t make me do this. Please!” I tried to stand up, but a firm hand on my shoulder held me down. “John, I don’t want to do this. Please don’t force me to—”

“Force? Who said anything about force? You don’t have to do this. I’ll just be letting Mr. Edgar know that you aren’t exactly the right fit for the Seven if you don’t.”

He knew Homelander would do that. But Marc had to at least try to make him stop, as futile as it seemed. And — _fuck me_ — he had the worst possible choice to make. Homelander started to unzip Marc’s outfit, and he took his hand away from his shoulder, staring at him with his deranged blue eyes, capable of incinerating him at any moment. “Ass,” Marc muttered, defeated. “Fuck me in the . . .” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. This was too much, too terrifying.

It was then that he noticed Homelander had been palming his raging hard-on through his outfit. He tensed, and averted his eyes from him.

Homelander fisted a hand into his hair and slammed him onto the table. “Don’t fucking move. If you don’t struggle, it’ll be easier.”

“Get off of me, you fucker!” he shouted, but he ignored me and yanked his pants down to his ankles, exposing his bare ass. Homelander started to rub up against it with his uniform still on, groaning softly, but he stopped and released Marc. “What is it, John?” Now, if he stopped, Marc wouldn’t need to endure this all, but that meant he wasn’t good enough in some way or another. And he’d end up off the Seven anyways.

“Take your clothes off,” he commanded softly, glowering at Marc’s exposed lower half. It wasn’t cruelly said exactly, like everything else about this mess. Marc fully unzipped the front of his uniform and shrugged off the tight leather. Then, he stepped out of his pants, totally naked in front of this goddamn monster.

He grinned, unbuckling his own belt and dropping his pants. His hand settled on Marc’s throat, and he once more slammed him into the glass table. Marc’s face smacked directly into it, and he cried out in pain. “Quiet, Golden,” he snapped, and placed a hand on his ass.

“Please,” he whined, hating how pathetic he sounded. God, Marc had said that so many times already, and there was no way Homelander was listening. He wanted to fuck someone; it didn’t matter if they wanted it back. “I’ll do anything but this willingly. Do you want me to kill someone? Or hurt someone? Because I will. No questions asked.”

“You’re sweet and you have a lot of potential, Golden boy, but this has to happen before you take your rightful position at the table.” He held two fingers out in front of his face. “Suck,” he commanded. Marc shook his head. “Do it, or you’re done here before you even started. Think about how it would look — Brightflame kicked off of the Seven on his first day. Those would be some real good headlines. Learn your place, Golden boy,” he purred in his ear. Marc reluctantly opened his mouth and leaned forward a little more, and took them in his mouth, gagging whenever Homelander moved them.

“Just like that, keep going,” he repeated a few times, before saying, “You know what I’m going to do to you? I’m going to fuck you in the ass. I’m going to fuck you so hard, so deep, until you bleed and cry.”

His hand pulled away and moved over Marc’s ass, and he slid the two fingers in. He gasped, and fought back a shout. “Relax. It’ll be over soon enough.”

All Marc just wanted him to get it over with, so that he could run away somewhere and cry his goddamn eyes out. It was weak and childish, but the only thing he could think of at that moment. This was fucked up. Marc had never had to deal with something like this before. Homelander pumped his fingers in and out, in and out, and he breathed deeply, trying not to sob. It hurt like hell, but he didn’t want to let on to that.

After a minute or two, Homelander started to shoved the tip of his cock in. “Does that hurt?” he snapped, and Marc wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hear yes or no. On one hand, he was a total fucking sadist, and on the other, he was taking the time to ask.

“Stop, you fucking asshole!” Marc yelled, and he tightened the hand around his throat, so he had to gasp for air.

“Fine,” he growled. “I gave you a shot to make it easier.” He shoved the rest of his cock in roughly, and Marc clenched around it, biting back a scream once more. 

He thrust in hard, over and over again, keeping his hand on his throat. Homelander was just going at it, groaning after every few thrusts. “Go f-f-fuck yourself!” Marc screamed, voice wavering in the middle as he forced back a sob.

“Seeing as I have you, I don’t know if that’s necessary.” He buried himself deeper inside, and Marc couldn’t help but cry out.

No matter how much he squirmed or writhed or cried or screamed, Homelander didn’t stop, just kept pounding into Marc, and making it feel like each time was further in than before. What if it was Marc’s fault? He wasn’t a fucking fag, or at least he tried not to be.

Marc figured Homelander was the kind of guy who didn’t take too long, and he was totally right. His thrusts became really erratic after around three minutes, and Marc could tell he was close. After a minute more and a loud moan, he finished into him and pulled out, quickly throwing his outfit back on. Marc felt his cum inside of himself, all sticky and gross and awful. His ass hurt like hell, and he doubted he’d be able to sit down fine for a day or two. Marc looked down, and a trail of maroon blood mixed with cum ran down his leg.

“Don’t just stand there. Get dressed,” Homelander demanded, and he panicked, pulling his pants back on.

“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, closing his eyes tightly and hoping he wouldn’t ask him to do it again. It was too painful, too fucking terrible, worse than anything that had been done to him in the past. Homelander was fucking evil. Marc needed to find a way to kill him.

Homelander shook his head. “Don’t apologize, and my name is either John or Homelander. This little incident didn’t change anything about the last hour. You’re still a great person, and I’m happy to have you on the team. You just needed to learn your place, just like all of us did at one point or another. One day you’ll be on top, both literally and figuratively.” He tossed Marc his shirt and smiled warmly. “I’ll be going now, but I look forward to seeing you later.”He tensed. “Jesus Christ, Golden. That was genuine. Nothing sexual.”

“S-see you soon, John.” Marc managed a smile as he zipped up his shirt.


	5. Honesty

The Homelander was gay. The all-American Christian asshole with a flag for a cape liked fucking boys. A laugh escaped Marc’s lips, a sharp sound akin to a bark. It was the only thing he could do, curled into a ball on my new bed. Other than cry, he figured.

His cheeks flushed red, as he thought back to all those years before. That goddamn day in December. It was perfect weather, snow falling outside like a painting or a Robert Frost poem. That was Maine for you. Home to Dartmouth College, beautiful scenery, and old Wencely Preparatory Academy. Also the place where he and Charles Hall were getting it on in his dorm the day their term grades came out when their floor’s advisor walked in.

Marc should have left school the moment his report card came in. Not many boys did, though. Technically, term didn’t end for another three days, and the Dean would get pissed if they did. He should’ve just pulled a Holden Caulfield and gotten the fuck out of there, maybe spent a few days in town or even down in New York City.

Charles and Marc never spoke again. After the incident, both of their fathers were sent a letter saying that they had gotten into a serious fight. Back then, these things were totally done under the table. To actually write what the two boys did in a letter would be heinous and unheard of. If more than those who absolutely needed to know found out, he’d fucking die.

He couldn’t help but replay the events in his mind, repeat the hell he went through.

_When our fathers got to school, they explained the situation to the families separately, then gave us a few minutes alone to talk. My father stayed quiet for around thirty seconds, the most tense moments of my life._

Marc did my best to force the memory down, think about something good, something happy. Jonas and him playing catch on their front lawn, dinner parties with the Kennedys, nights out drinking with Wencely’s debate team.

None of it worked, and the memory only became more predominant, more up front, turning all those good thoughts sour, into something awful. The tears streamed down his face now, not just a steady trickle anymore. It was too much to think about, too many bad things clouding his head, things he was usually good at keeping down.

_“Did he force himself on you?” my father asked, probably too scared to want to know the answer. I can still remember his low, hateful voice, constantly playing over and over again in my head._

Is it wrong that Marc wished he’d said yes? Maybe it wouldn’t have gone over as badly if he had only just told him he had no control in the matter. Maybe his father would have gone easy on him, believed that he was just a normal, functioning teenaged boy. Granted, it would have made Marc seem weak. Better weak than a fucking fag, though.

_Every muscle in my body tensed. “No,” I muttered back._

_“So did you” — he hesitated — “want him to do that to you?” At that point, he was desperate. I’d never seen him like that before, so goddamn depressed. I only ever saw that look on his face once after, when we got the letter about Jonas._

Marc knew it was wrong. He knew it was awful. He knew it was a goddamn sin. But he did it anyways. It was the worst thing he ever did.

If only Marc could’ve lied. Every single day after school, he went to debate or International Assembly Simulation, where he learned how to he the perfect liar, the perfect politician. Politicians are supposed to know when to lie and when to embellish. The perfect politician also isn’t supposed to take it up the ass. If he fail at the latter, if he couldn’t stop fucking boys, then why would Marc have any other part of what it took to work D.C., to be President.

This was definitely a cause for embellishing, if not for lying as well. One false statement could have saved him from years of pain, decades of bad dreams. Though it would have been worse for Charles. And Marc didn’t want that for him.

_I managed a nod. “I’m so, so sorry. This should not have happened, nor will it ever again.” He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father! I—”_

_“You’re no son of mine, you fucking_ schwuchtel _. You don’t deserve the Golden family name. If information like this were to get out, do you have any idea what would happen? My career hinges on my reputation, Marc! Can you imagine the New York Times running, ‘Former Chief of Staff’s son proven to be a homosexual’ on their front page?”_

Alexander Golden’s career was everything. More important than any of their lives separately. He was the one who made the Goldens famous, gave them power. He was the one who sent Marc and Jonas to Wencely, where they practically launched our — albeit, short — careers.

It all failed in the end, but that didn’t remotely have to do with Marc’s sexual preferences. First came Jonas, died nobly in the War, fighting for the allies, fighting for freedom, fighting for the fucking American way. The bastard could’ve been a politician, could’ve just gone to D.C. to become a congressman, but no, he had to be a soldier. He had to fight and die for his country. Mark of the immature man, he figured.

Next came Marc Golden. Now, that kid was going places. Top of his class, graduated from one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country a year early, heir apparent to the Golden political dynasty. If only he didn’t go missing. The country would probably be better off for it. The country would have a different set of presidents, that much was true. 

And, finally, to end it all once and for all, Alexander Golden was shot in the head while serving as Harry S. Truman’s Secretary of State. The man who did it was never found. At least not by the police.

Marc Golden found him staying at a boarding house on Staten Island.

Brightflame left hours later, screams from behind him filling the air with music, his own personal symphony. Red covered his body, matting his hair to his forehead, permanently staining his tailored button-down, galoshing in his Oxfords. His nose flared at the smell of burning flesh, but he didn’t know he’d soon cherish that scent as that of victory.

Any day he found himself depressed over Secretary Golden’s death, he remembered that moment, that still from his life. And it was beautiful.

Singlehandedly, one man managed to destabilize the United States’ democracy, through murdering its most loyal servant. Anyone with the utter gall and stupidity to do something like that deserves the most grievous of deaths.

_“Father—” I tried defending myself, willing back tears._

_“Don’t interrupt me!” he snapped, shooting to his feet and backhanding me. “Maybe you weren’t thinking of my career. That, I suppose, is still wrong, but understandable. But what about you?” He shoved me back, and I stumbled into a chair. “Since you were a child, you wanted to be the President of the goddamned United States. Can you imagine having a fag in office?” My father pulled back a fist and punched me in the jaw. I crumpled to the ground and put my hands up defensively._

Alexander Golden didn’t hit his kids too often. Not as much as most parents at the time, at least from what Marc could gather. He really cared about them, wanted the best for his two boys. And when they fucked up, they had to pay. That’s what Alex Golden thought.

Marc supposed that was partly true. When someone does something wrong, they should be punished, but never physically. If he ever had kids, if he was capable of having kids (Vought actually wasn’t sure if Marc could or couldn’t yet), he’d never hit them. He’d yell at them if they fucked up, but something rubbed him wrong about actually laying a hand on them.

Now, in 2020, it may be possible to put a gay man in office. But definitely not in the forties. His father was right, something like that would ruin Marc’s life, wreck any chance he had of power. Good thing he really managed to nip it in the bud.

_My eyes shut tightly, and I stammered, “Sir, I’m sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry.” Tears rolled down my face._

_“You’re lucky we have money. Your mother’s family and their money have helped you through life for a very long time.” He stood up and sat down in his chair once more. “Marc, the Golden Family will be donating a large sum of money to Wencely to tell them to stay quiet.”_

_“W-will they?” I asked, getting to my feet dejectedly and wiping blood onto the sleeve of my uniform jacket._

_He smiled without any joy. “What makes the world go around?”_

Since Jonas and Marc were young, their father told them this so many times. When he grew up in Prussia, he wasn’t rich, despite the Goellenzern’s claims of relation to Frederick the Great. He never had too much money, enough to live comfortably, but nothing to the level of my mother’s family.

It was a blessing that they got some of her family’s money after she passed, considering how much her family hated the Goldens. Though, it was most definitely the exact opposite when she passed. The saddest part is that Marc didn’t miss her, just the idea of her. How can you miss someone you don’t remember? That was something he was still working on figuring out.

The fact that he didn’t have a mother definitely affected him, but he wasn’t sure how. Marc knew he would have been a different person if she was still around. But how different was a question only answered by a time machine.

_“Money, Father.” He nodded._

_“Come here, Marc,” he demanded, and I inched over to him. “Now, there are consequences to your actions, which you understand, but that doesn’t address the actions themselves. Do you have any idea what the fuck you did?”_

_“I . . . I screwed up, sir.”_

_My father nodded. “That you did. You did one of the worst possible things you could’ve done. There’s a special place in Hell for people like you. If you weren’t too good in school, or had no real political passion, I’d be disappointed. But, this? This is heinous. This is the thing that ends dynasties and permanently leaves a family scorned. You’re not my son anymore. You need to re earn the privilege of calling me your father.”_

_He threw a punch at my gut, and I keeled over. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He continued to hit me, while I sobbed and begged him to stop._

So much for laughing. Marc just ended up curling into a ball, sobbing his fucking eyes out. That fucking fag Homelander had knocked all of this loose once more. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that table that his face was mashed into, felt Homelander’s hands yanking down his pants, heard his gravelly, calm voice telling Marc exactly what he was going to do to him. And Marc fucking let him. His brain drifted back to what his father had said.

Maybe he wanted it. Maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe if he’d done something different, it wouldn’t have turned out the way it did. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he was a fucking fag who’d never get over that stupid phase.

There was a knock as his door. Marc couldn’t not answer it. _What if it’s John?_ He’d probably kill him if he didn’t answer. “One minute!” Marc roared, and dragged himself out of bed. He practically crawled to the bathroom, and washed away his tears. His eyes were red and sunken in, his skin paler than ever. 

He limped to the door, despite his best efforts to walk normally. His hand closed around the doorknob. _What if it’s John?_ Marc thought once more. _What if he wants to go another round?_ If that was the case, there really was no way out of it. He’d fuck him once more, and Marc would scream and cry, totally helpless. Homelander wouldn’t stop — that guy was a fucking monster — but he could at least make it easier for himself. Not protesting, not struggling, just relaxing.

Whoever it was knocked again, and he racked up enough courage to throw the door open. “Holy shit, Marc!” exclaimed Eliza. “You look like hell. What happened?”

Seeing her stopped him in his tracks. Marc expected someone awful, but instead saw the only person at Vought he knew he could trust for sure. Well, there was Annie as well, but Marc just didn’t know her. At the same time, she was all he had. What would she think of him if she saw the pathetic, sobbing boy he was?

He did his best to compose himself, straightening his back and blinking away the redness in his eyes. “Hey, Eliza, what’s up?”

“What happened?” she repeated, a little more forceful this time, walking into his apartment without being invited in. Despite how close they’d become over the past week, Marc couldn’t help but grimace at her intrusion. 

Nonetheless, he sat down, and decided not to mention it. Instead, Marc’s voice turned hostile, and he snapped, “What do you think happened?” Why did she have to know what happened? It was too much to actually tell someone about. He just wanted to keep it in. The more you tell people about something, the more you remember it, the more it carries on. If she stopped asking, he would end up fine.

“I can’t help you if you act like this.”

It was like someone flipped a switch within him. Any affection or forgiveness he had for her evaporated in that moment. His expression hardened, and he practically shouted, “I don’t need your help! I don’t need _you_! Or anyone else, for that matter. And I sure as hell don’t need to tell anyone anything.” His eyes heated up, burning orange-ish red in a real fire.

No one sane would continue to go against what the angry supe with glowing eyes wanted. Eliza van der Elsen was not sane.

Her hand tentatively reached out and settled on his shoulder. “You don’t need anyone. But sometimes having someone helps, even if it’s just one person. Don’t talk if you don’t want to. Hold it all in until you explode with sadness or anger.” She squeezed lightly, and Marc forced himself to vanquish the fire in his eyes.. “Tell me.”

“Don’t touch me,” he said softly.

She nodded, pulling away and sitting down once more.

“John happened. Homelander happened.” Marc tensed. “You know how it goes, Eliza. You’ve heard the stories of what happens to new members of the Seven. I thought I was immune. I thought that he wouldn’t want to do _that_ to _me_.”

“What did he do?” she asked quietly.

“Don’t make me say it, Eliza,” he begged, but kept his voice as harsh as possible. It was either that or tears, and the latter needed to be avoided at all costs. She stayed quiet. “You know saying it makes it real. It doesn’t have to be real. We could just turn on the TV, put on some nineties’ sitcom, and drink until we can’t see straight.” He allowed himself a smile.

She sighed. “Marc, you need to admit that it happened. If you don’t, you’ll never be able to move forward. Whatever happened happened. The past is unchangeable. But the future isn’t. Talk to me. Look, I know we’ve only know each other for a few days, but here, we’ve only got each other.”

“Fuck off,” Marc said. “What, did you watch all of _Criminal Minds_ and now think you’re fucking Sigmund Freud? You think you can profile anyone, fix anyone’s problems? News flash, you’re just an incompetent idiot with no qualifications who’s probably going to get murdered within the month.” He practically spit out the last words, then snarled at her.

“I’m not leaving.”

“God, you’re a fucking bitch,” Marc muttered under his breath, barely hearing his own words. Fine, then. If she wouldn’t go, he’d bring out the big guns, use what he had. His eyes lit up once more, burning a menacing fire. “Get out!” he roared. “Or I’ll fucking burn you! I told you before, I don’t need you! I’m fine!”

For a moment, he saw the fear in her eyes. Good. It was working. “Okay. You can kill me. But I’m fucking staying. Partially because I think you might choke on your own vomit if I leave you alone, partially because I genuinely want you to be okay.”

“In all my years of drinking too much, I’ve never choked on my vomit. Eliza, I’m fucking fine. I won’t kill you if you stay, since you’re not evil, but I’ll be pissed.”

“Marc, we’re in a sort of dire situation. And, no, you shouldn’t be forced to talk about this, but the whole fucking word needs you at your best.”

The fire in his eyes went out. “Why me? Why do _I_ need to save the world? I’m seventeen, Eliza. Hell, you’re sixteen. We should be stressing about finals and college apps and working up enough courage to ask our crushes out and drinking shitty beer at house parties.”

“Well, that’s not what the world had in mind. So we don’t get to do those things. It’ll just make it feel worse to think about what we’re missing. It’s not fair that you need to be here. It’s not fair whatever happened to you that led you from wherever you were to the boys, then to the Seven. But life isn’t fair. Get over yourself, Marc, and grow the fuck up. You can cry, but don’t bitch and moan about having someone to talk to.”

“Fine! I’ll tell you what happened. Just, please, can I have a fucking drink?”

Eliza nodded. “Sure.” She pushed a bottle towards Marc, trusting him enough not to gulp down the entire bottle in two minutes. He figured he should keep that trust, and poured himself two fingers.

“So . . . Homelander and I were getting drinks and talking and shit. He was being nice, being honest. And then he got all scary and . . . did . . . you know.” Marc gathered his composure. Three words came out of his mouth that changed everything. They hung in the air, expanding and filling up the room, making it difficult to breath. The moment they left Marc’s lips, he regretted it. This couldn’t be taken back, couldn’t be unsaid. _“He raped me.”_


	6. Just The Way You are

Marc Golden wasn’t used to having to practice smiling. It just came natural, a playful, crooked, almost kiddish grin. No one ever said there was something wrong with it; in fact, people tended to like it. Worked wonders on girls, though he wasn’t too interested.

Ever since his first big meeting with PR, every single fucking day, he stood in front of his floor length mirror, inspecting every inch of himself, making sure nothing was out of place.

That bitchy PR lady really drilled him, dragged every inch of him. Her works repeated over and over again in his head.  _ “Your hair’s too flat and long and a little on the greasy side.” _ That was only a little true. Marc liked growing my hair out decently long, but it was tough to manage, which wasn’t too good.  _ “Your eyes are too brown.” _ What the fuck did that even mean? His eyes were brown, but how could they be too much so of that? He would understand ‘too blue’ or ‘too green’, but brown? It came down to even,  _ “Your dick is too small.” _ It was average to above average! And why the fuck did that matter? Apparently, raw sex appeal is what they were going for.

So be it. Marc could be sexy if he wanted. He just usually didn’t.

Though, he must admit, it is very difficult to look hot with your dick rammed into a freakishly large, stiff, thick, codpiece. It didn’t even look realistic. If anything, it looked like he stuffed just about five goddamn pairs of socks down my pants to make myself look more well-endowed.

She called him too scrawny, so he was on an all-protein diet. It was hellish — bacon and a shake for breakfast, peanut butter for lunch (they wanted him to have chicken or pork, but he couldn’t stand it, so he incinerated it), and a fucking big slab of medium steak for dinner. Eliza was helping him out, or at least offering moral support. Every meal that he did all-protein, she’d eat a keto meal. It wasn’t even for anything, just to make Marc feel better and less alone.

Since that day she knocked on his door, Eliza was always there. Every single goddamn hour of every goddamn day. It had been about a week, and almost every day, she slept in his room. Marc always took the couch and she’d get the bed. It was the same each time — they’d get into a big argument over who got the bed and he’d convince her to take it. She said that once he was totally cleared with Vought, he could stay at her place.

After his first day, Vought literally gave him a curfew. He needed to be inside the building from nine at night to seven in the morning. It was probably to observe him and make sure he was really dedicated.

But Marc was getting strangely attached to that stupid goddamn suite. He and Eliza moved all his books in, and went to a used book shop near Columbia to get some new ones. She hated him for fawning over the comic books. Not the Vought bullshit, though. He liked the good stuff, the Alan Moore sort of thing, the kinds that point out what’s wrong in a society.

Comics weren’t why he was there, though. He was there for another  _ Catcher in the Rye _ , a Tolkien translation of  _ Sir Gawain _ , a good ol’  _ Dune _ and just about his tenth  _ The Prince _ . She was there for some paranormal romance shit. He never like love stories much. Too phony and unrealistic for him. If you want smut, read smut. But romances with actual stories are pointless.

He stood, looking in the mirror, practicing all the heroic poses. Hands on hips, then arms crossed, then showing off his biceps, or lack thereof.

Of course, Eliza had to walk in at that moment. “What the fuck, Marc!” His cheeks went red and he grabbed the closest thing to cover myself up, which was, unfortunately a goddamn world map on the wall. “What are you even doing?”

“Just making sure I look good. For today, my first public appearance.”

“Are you planning on going out stark fucking naked?” she asked while he scrambled around the room looking for some pants.

“No! I just need to look good! You know, not too scrawny, not too bulky, not too stiff, not to relaxed. Just full-on Baby Bear.”

A smile sprung to her lips. “Come on, Golden-locks.” She tossed him some plaid boxers. “Get dressed. You’ve got the conference in twenty. If you fuck it up, you’re off the team, and we’re screwed.” Eliza picked up  _ Watchmen _ , bookmarked at around issue 3. “Marc, I told you to stop reading this.”

His lips moved into a thin, emotionless line across my face. “And why might that be?”

Both of them knew why already. As helpful as she’d been, she was coddling him way too much, treating him like some little puppy kicked too many times and lost in a crowd of strangers.

“Anything that might make you feel . . .”

“I’m fine, Eliza. Look, I’ve got you, I’ve got Hughie and Frenchie, whenever I can talk to them again. I don’t need someone to fucking baby me and not let me read the comics I’ve been reading for a quarter of a century. Just because the Comedian is a shitty person doesn’t mean that I should stop reading it.”

She shrugged. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help. You know that, right?”

“Of course, Eliza. You’re doing amazing. If it weren’t for you . . . I don’t even want to think about what may have been.” Marc tugged on his uniform, squeezing into the tight, padded uniform, setting the heavy, bulky pauldrons straight, cramming his feet into the platform boots.

“Thanks, Marc. Let’s head down. You got a speech ready, one of those inspiring hero speeches to make the girls swoon and the boys cheer?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I wrote one. Ashley is making me read the original Vought bullshit that won’t fucking work.” His face scrunched up in distaste, and he slumped back onto the couch. “I’m the fucking best speechwriter there is, Eliza. I can come up with something better than their goddamn corporate horseshit! I don’t need PR, I don’t need speechwriters!”

By the end of his little monologue, she was practically gaping at him. “You sound so fucking arrogant right now, Milkshake.” One of Eliza’s new favorite things to do was come of with random nicknames for him. Her favorite, so far, was Milkshake, but he’d had to deal with Milk Bar, Mel. “Hell, you sound like . . .”

“. . . Homelander,” Marc finished. “You can say his name, you know. Please, Eliza, don’t walk on eggshells around me. I’m just a regular person. I’m just Marc Golden. Please just treat me as such.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually say ‘as such’ out loud.” The two of them chuckled softly. “Look, Mel Gibson, I’m doing my best, but I have no idea what you’re going through. If I fuck up, just tell me.” She pulled him into a tight hug, and he did his best not to smack her or impale her with the shoulder pads.

“Stop acting like you’re a shitty person. You’re just about one of the only nice people I’ve ever met. I really need to go or I’ll probably be fired, but just know that you’re amazing and you’re doing so fucking amazing. You shouldn’t have to deal with me and all my problems, but you still are. And you’re doing fucking amazing. You  _ are  _ amazing, Eliza van der Elsen. I really love you.” Before it actually registered what Marc just said or how it could be misinterpreted, he was out the door, on the way to start his goddamn corporate nightmare of a life.

Well, his corporate nightmare started when he was bent over that table.

But that wasn’t something he was supposed to be thinking about. He wanted to just forget it and push it all away, plaster on a smile and hope that made him happy.

With each step he took down the hallway of the ninety-ninth floor, Marc grew more and more tense. It felt like something was going to jump out from behind and point a loaded gun in his face then fire. Fucking whatever. If he died, he died. And a gun to the head is a good, clean way to go, one of the best and easiest ways to die.

“Golden!” A voice dripping with delight rang in his ears, a voice he knew far too well, despite only knowing him for a few days. “Hey, buddy!” Homelander clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve barely seen you since your first day here.”

“Yeah, sure, Homelander.” Marc gulped nervously and did his best to look normal, putting his signature smirk on his face. It wasn’t the same, though, and John could tell. The twinkle in his eyes was missing, same with the slight parting of his lips. Not that Marc never smiled again, but it just seemed to happen less.

MM, Hughie, and Frenchie tried to prepare him for this, make sure Marc knew what he was getting myself into. He just dismissed them like a fucking idiot; he thought he was a guy, so it wouldn’t happen to him. One day, whenever he was secure enough at his place in Vought to start forming communications with the Boys, he’d need to tell them. He’d need to look them in the eye and say what happened. It would be good ammo against Homelander in the future. There was a part of him that just wanted to keep it to himself and forget about it. But he came to the Seven for one reason — to get dirt.

“Come on, Golden, we’ve got, what? Fifteen minutes until your big speech? Enough time for a highball?” Marc stayed quiet, too terrified to say ‘yes’ and too threatened to say ‘no’. “Drinks? You in?” Homelander (or maybe John? They seemed to be two different people. John was nicer, and maybe his offer for drinks was genuine) repeated.

“I-I’m seventeen,” he stammered, the only excuse he could think of that wouldn’t get me killed.

“Don’t give me any of that bullshit. Here, let’s go.” He started walking away, and Marc grudgingly followed.

“Ashley will kill me if I’m not getting my hair and makeup and shit done. I’m sorry, John, I just don’t have time. And maybe we should save the booze for after my bigass press conference and speech or whatever.”

His eyes narrowed. “Golden, there is one true pleasure in being a member of the Seven, and that is pissing off whatever-that-bitch’s-name-is with no consequences. You’re in the big leagues now. You and I, plus every other supe in this building, can do whatever the fuck we want. Never forget that, Marc.” John grinned, and ducked into the conference room. He went to the minibar and pulled out some Jim Beam whiskey and ginger ale.

Marc always liked highballs, or any other drink with ginger beer or ale. Jonas used to love Moscow Mules and would make them one almost every night both of them were home. Marc was never a fan of the lime, though.

“How’ve you been? Getting used to all of the luxury?”

“Yeah, it’s been good, I suppose. Wait, who am I kidding? It’s fucking horrorshow!” He took a small sip. He really didn’t want to get drunk, in case it made him weaker or more tired than usual. “How ‘bout you, John?”

“I’ve been alright. Not too good, if I’m being honest. Everyone is being so fucking annoying. You know how it is, don’t you? Fucking humans being stupid little weak cocksuckers.” John smiled charismatically, and clapped him on the back. “Vought had the fucking audacity to suggest that a cripple take Translucent’s place. A  _ cripple _ !”

Damn, this guy was awful on every single front. Marc wanted to tell him to go fuck himself with a soup can, but settled on, “Fuck, that’s awful. What’d you say to the poor bastard?”

He smirked and laughed softly to himself. “Say? I didn’t say a damn thing. Just smacked him on the ears so hard his head exploded.” Marc was absolutely horrified. He couldn’t even hide it. Anyone who heard something like this would have been horrified.

“What? He’s . . . he’s dead? You killed him?”

John realized his mistake. “If I didn’t do what I did, he’d be on the Seven right now. He was being a cocky fucker, thought he was better than me. I just taught him a lesson that ended a little off. But that’s not the point. Come on, Marc, look at me. I’m Homelander, but what does that mean, at its core?”

“That you’re responsible for saving the world?”

“No. You can’t possibly still believe that, can you. What, are you fucking retarded?” Marc shook his head, and took another sip. “Good, I didn’t think so. But I don’t blame you, for thinking that being a hero was . . . well, heroic. That’s what the people believe, even the smartest of the smart. We’re pretty much just influencers who can laser the shit out of people. And, to answer my question, we can do whatever the fuck we want.” He gripped his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “Got it?”

A smirk touched Marc’s lips. “Fuck yeah. We can do whatever the fuck we want.”

“Now, I heard that there were some issues with your big introductory speech. I heard what Ashley and Mr. Edgar said — Marc is a whiny bastard who thinks far too much — but what’s your story? Because that’s really all that matters.”

“I wrote a fucking amazing speech. And, believe me, I know how to write speeches, so this was better than anything those PR bastards who probably barely managed to get a degree from some mid-rate college in communications. And I pitched it to Ashley. She told me to fuck off. So I pitched it to Mr. Edgar. Do you know what he told me to do?”

He shrugged. “Enlighten me.”

“To stick it up my ass.”

“And you didn’t kill him on the spot? Well, I suppose Vought just might collapse if the fucker dies. But you didn’t give him hell?” Marc shook his head. “Remember that for next time. Alright, Golden boy, what’s there to do next?” He didn’t wait for a response, and just said, “Go out there, and give that speech. I read it, and it’s good, better than most of our shit. Hit the ground running, kiddo.”

“Fucking horrorshow, man! Let’s go!” He felt good, suddenly. Homelander was the fucking worst, but he could live with John. It was pretty great for someone to actually want him to succeed, even if it was just for his own benefit.

There was a brief uphill from there, but everything went downhill fast.

Marc gave his speech, the whole thing. “People of America, I have dedicated my life to defending  _ you _ . . . I’m not here for money, fame, or power . . . It’s been a dream of mine to be in a place where I can truly help people . . .”

Everyone loved it. The people watching from the crowd cheered like thirteen-year-old girls at a boyband concert. He had to stop himself from smirking wickedly when he saw that. This wasn’t where he was meant to be, and was just a temporary position as far as he was concerned, but maybe there was at least a little good to be done while he was there, and all the power in the world.

But that wasn’t the best part.

The very greatest thing about that entire afternoon of the speech, then the press conference, then interview after interview for just about every news outlet there was, was the look on Stan fucking Edgar’s face when Marc launched into just about the best speech he’d ever written.

Of course, he got quite the stern talking to afterwards. He did what he always did, put on a apathetic mask and toned out everything Edgar said.

“You’re acting like a child, Marc!”

“Well, you’re not acting too goddamn adult either. My way or no way, that’s your entire mentality, isn’t it? You fail to see how amazing that speech of mine was. Everyone loved it, even the reporters. And reporters hate everything, more or less. Come on, we should be drinking to my great success! Everyone loves me!”

“And is that all you want? For everyone to love you?”

Marc thought for a moment. “Of course. I mean, I want them to love me for being heroic, though, for saving the world.”

“Based on what you’ve seen of these so-called heroes, do you really think that will be possible? You’re a child, Marc. I should never have let you onto the team. Too young, too idealistic, too . . .  _ breakable _ .”

His face scrunched up in anger, and he shot to my feet. “Sir—”

“Let me finish,” he said sternly. Marc gave him a small nod. “That is my point exactly. You’re seventeen. And this is the last place you want to be.”

“Well, I can agree with you on that front. You’re being an insufferable twat. I’m leaving.”

“That’s not what I mean, Mr. Golden—”

“I prefer God-Emperor President Golden, thank you very much.” It was so difficult to keep a straight face. It would be pretty great if people called him that, but only once he earned the title. And he might earn the title of President. But God-Emperor is a little over the top and probably mildly infringes on democracy.

On one hand, democracy is the best system of government, with people actually getting a say in government. There’s voting and representatives and all that shit. On the other, democracy can really fuck over minorities.

Two thoughts sprung to his mind. That quote by Churchill, “Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time,” and the cover of  _ Leviathan _ . That was one of Marc and his friends’ favorite things to debate in debate team — Locke vs. Hobbes. 

As for him, he figured he knew enough of hate to hold with Hobbes.

People are selfish. People are awful. Most people must be governed. Multiple representatives are only out for themselves and don’t actually help at all.

But one ruler, made up of the people of the country, is far better. He’s also only out for himself, but in order for he himself to succeed, he must help everyone else out and do what is best for the people; otherwise they’ll overthrow him.

One king, one law, one faith, out for himself and by extension, his people. He presides over the land, towers over it, and was made up of the wishes of the people.

‘A’ for effort, Thomas Hobbes.

When it comes to how it would be executed, though, Hobbes and Karl Marx score around the same. Absolutism could never be sustained. Some hangry Frenchmen proved that.

So Locke wins. Democracy wins. Which means Marc will stick with President over God-Emperor. Either way, he’d be the most powerful man in the world.

“ _ Mister _ Golden!” Edgar snapped. “Look at me.” Marc’s dead, emotionless eyes drifted up to meet his. “You’re going to listen to me and not interrupt.” It wasn’t a question. “As I was saying, you could care less about being a supe. You could care less about Vought. All you want, all you’ve ever wanted, is power.”

His eyes burned an actual fire. Bright orange, red at the tips. Not quite like Homelander’s, but just as intimidating. Well, it would be, if Marc didn’t look like a pouty child. He tried his best not to, tried to be grown up, but it never fucking worked.

Still, he didn’t interrupt. Marc stayed quiet, like he was supposed to.

Edgar sighed, disappointed. “Do you think that scares me?” Marc shrugged, letting the physical fire in his eyes go out. The other fire stayed, the deep, simmering hatred almost scarier than any superpowers. “I’ve had to deal with overgrown children for my entire career. The only difference is that you’re an actual child. Son, you want to be a politician.”

A muscle in Marc’s face twitched. He hated being called ‘son’. So diminutive, so demeaning.

“You are not going to be a supe. You can try. You can stay here as long as you want, but you will never be one. At heart, you’ll always be a politician. You’ll always be a natural charmer, not a soldier. Unfortunately, I cannot fire you. It would do the both of us good if you left. But I must admit, you’re popular. The initial polls from today are coming in, and the people love you. Your approval ratings are through the roof.”

Marc smirked. “Then what’s the problem? Everyone loves me, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep it that way.”

“To put it simply, you aren’t listening. You do whatever you want, not worrying about the consequences. You’ll give whatever speech you want, go on whatever rogue missions you want, just do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Just doing as I was told, sir,” he responded.

For once in his life, Stan Edgar was taken aback. “And who, might I ask, told you to disobey every single one of the orders of the CEO of this entire company?” He didn’t even need Marc’s answer to know. “Homelander, right? You do not report to that fucking man-child, you report to me. Got it?”

“Whatever. Yeah. But I’m going to continue doing what I think is right. You can’t control me, and neither can John. I won’t try to harm Vought or the Seven. That’s not in my best interest. You can rest assured that everything I do is to further myself, and by extension, Vought or the Seven. Thanks, sir, but I’m leaving now.” Marc flashed him a coy smirk, then turned and walked out of the room, cape billowing behind him.

He never felt more like a real supe than he did in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I just wanted to thank everyone who's read my work! I really appreciate it, and am glad you enjoy it! Unfortunately, my updates may become less frequent, since I've been swamped with school work and internship applications. I'll still definitely write more, and I have a lot planned for the story.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoy what's to come!
> 
> \-- FearfulSymmetry6


	7. She's Right On Time

The ‘Saving America’ campaign was bullshit. Well, any campaign centering around a poster is a load of bullshit. Sure, there were commercials to go along with it, but no one cared about those. They may have worked on maybe a hundred people, but it wasn’t worth it. The only real effective campaign method was going on every channel, every show, a press conference daily, and a shitload of inspiring speeches.

None of that was John’s call. Marc tried to push all those ideas through, using John, but no one listened. Just like always. It was Vought’s way or no way. 

Marc wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there. He wanted to take down Vought more than anything, but it wouldn’t work from here. Edgar or someone else would have cause to kick him out if he was actively against them. So he’d lie in wait, like a lion stalking its prey, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Once his place was secure, once he had people willing to follow him to the ends of the earth, he’d begin his real work. This beginning was a trial phase, his way of establishing himself and building a following.

Soon he’d take them down.

It was only a matter of time.

But none of that helped him now, rereading the script to some cheesy ‘Saving America’ commercial. John and Maeve were next to him, the two other supes supposed to be in the program. The three of them were burning hot in the summer heat, wrapped in that tight leather — well, Maeve was fine, but he’d rather be burning hot than nearly naked.

John ruffled Marc’s hair like he was a little kid. “Want something to drink?” John asked.

“Can’t. Vought doesn’t want me drinking alcohol while on duty. That’s probably for the best, and not really something I see worth it to go against. Fucking sucks, though, but I’ll deal with it.”

“Well, you don’t just need to drink alcohol,” Maeve suggested. “We could get you a little juice box with the wings out.” Marc grimaced, and felt a sudden rush of heat on his ears.

Someone burst in and told them that it was time to film.

“You ready, Golden boy?” John asked him. “Got it all memorized? I sure as hell don’t.” He laughed to himself. “Look, you know this is a joke, right?”

Marc hesitantly nodded. “I guess. It doesn’t seem too serious. The whole ‘Saving America’ thing is a load of shit. Why aren’t you having rallies? Going on CNN? That’s what works, man.”

For a moment, John looked really offended, like he was going to punch Marc. Hell, Saving America was his thing, and Marc just fucking disparaged it, or at least tried to. Not the smartest choice on his part, but Marc would be okay in the end. He had to be. Even if John could do whatever he wanted, it would still be unwise to murder a teammate in front of an entire commercial crew. He settled for a wicked smile, which unnerved him just as much as a fist. “I suppose you’re right. I had a vision for Saving America that Vought threw down the drain. It’s okay. I won’t lose support. I never will.”

Once more, he ruffled Marc’s hair and sped up his pace to get to the filming area. At first, it was just he and Maeve, with some actor pretending to be a soldier standing with them. He really couldn’t tell you any more, since he couldn’t care less about this bullshit.

When he was sure no one was looking at him, distracted by the production itself, Marc pulled a cigarette box out from his pocket and lit one he himself had rolled up earlier that day. Breathing in the smoke felt good, better than usual. Since he started at Vought, he only had time for a smoke break around once a day, if that.

He tried to be discreet, since no one liked him smoking (Marc figured it wasn’t as bad as drinking, so he did it anyways), but today was different. Today was a stressful mess.

There was a voice behind him. Marc wasn’t paying enough attention to make out the words just yet, but knew it came from a woman. He spun around to face her, and she pointed a phone camera at him. “Oh, and there’s Brightflame, the newest member of the Seven.” Marc ripped the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it onto the ground. “I suppose it only makes sense that he smokes.”

“Wait— I— no!” Marc jumped to his feet, then realized that that was just about the worst first impression he could have made, especially in front of someone as beautiful as her. “Sorry ‘bout that. Hi, I’m Brightflame.” A charismatic smile to hide his internal panic as he scraped the sides of his brain for who the hell this was. Dark purple uniform, black cape, lighting bolt earrings. “And you’re Stormfront! From . . . Portland, right?”

“Wow, he got it right,” she told the camera, then turned away from him. “Oh, FYI, this isn’t a real military base. Do you really think . . .” As she walked away, towards Maeve and John, he couldn’t quite hear her, but felt the overpowering urge to follow her. Maybe it was her hair, maybe her sarcasm and cockiness, maybe her perfect goddamn breasts. A smile found its way onto his lips, without any of his awareness.

Marc snapped out of it, and dashed after her. She was pointing at John’s eyes, saying they were really blue. Hell, she was right. John’s eyes were borderline scary, even when they weren’t glowing. The PR bitch was also there, doing what she did best — fretting for no reason.

“You are . . .” John looked horrified, “ _ fun _ . It’s been a hoot, but we got work to do.” Hoot? Who the fuck seriously says ‘hoot’ anymore? “So . . . let’s get back to it.” He walked away, huffing like a small child who didn’t get his way. Granted, that was exactly what he was. Marc hung back, though. The longer he stayed around Stormfront, the more intoxicated he got.

Maeve noticed him gawking, and shoved him lightly. His gaze drifted to her, and he grinned euphorically.

Just about the most surprising thing anyone could say drew Marc out of his trance. “I’m in the Seven. Replacing Translucent.” She was joining the Seven? Nothing could be better, there was nothing like it in the world.

Somehow, Ashley (he was pretty sure that was her name) got even more panicked. “I didn’t know about this, I didn’t clear this,” she said, when Homelander shot her a glare. Considering how the last suggestion to replace Translucent went, this couldn’t be too good for her. “This isn’t real. I don’t think . . .”

John nodded, trying to look under control and happy, but just ended up seeming frazzled and scared. That was not a good look on America’s Poster Boy. Maeve was pretty much just gaping, looking how all four of us felt.

“Who . . . who delivered the good news?” John asked. His eyes were starting to get scary, not in a fire way but moreso psychotic, like he could snap at any moment.

“Oh, uh, Mr. Edgar. The big guy.”

Holy shit! Stan fucking Edgar? Marc was pretty sure he was the only one who was interviewed by Mr. Edgar, and that was only because he was known by Vought in the forties and had just come back, seemingly from the dead. “That’s fucking amazing,” he breathed out, an awed look on his face.

Of course, John looked even worse, even more insane. “Wonderful! Great! Alright!” He clapped his gloved hands together, then walked away, clearly annoyed.

“Well, it was nice to meet you.” She put her hand on Marc’s shoulder.

His tight leather pants became even tighter.

When she was a safe distance away, and Marc was just standing there with Maeve, he stammered, face gone red, “Bathroom. Got to go. N-now! The b-bitch of living is calling” As he darted away, he heard a loud, surprisingly genuine laugh from Maeve.

* * *

“We didn’t get too much a change to talk when we first met.” Marc was drinking, seemingly alone at the Seven’s bar until he heard  _ her _ voice. You know, the woman who gave him a goddamn hard-on at a commercial set.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he replied, trying to keep his composure. The only thing he could think to say was, “When’s your big press entrance, or whatever?”

She laughed. “Jesus Christ, kid, don’t even mention that shit. Have you seen any of their ‘Girls Get it Done’ crap?” This was his chance to be tactful. What did girls like about him? He had to think there were some things, considering how many he’d seduced.

His hair was average, same with his eyes. Though his eyes paired with a confident grin worked wonders. There was, of course, his politics. Girls just like guys with strong opinions. The money was useful, but sometimes backfired. Or, more accurately, it backfired colossally once. Though Marc was drunk on both whiskey and victory after a fucking horrorshow debate win. Pretty much the only good advice he could give on getting with someone is to never ever say, ‘Come on, one day you’ll be able to tell your grandkids that you fucked the President of the United States right after his first political victory.’ That girl went with him for the politics and left for the ego-mania that came with it.

“I mean, it’s great that there are more girls in the Seven, but that victory really feels phony or only for the money if they capitalize it with interviews and shitty action figures. Though, as a corporation, it’s their job to make money from everything, but they could’ve been a little more subtle about it.”

“Hate to tell you, but for someone against capitalism, you’re in the wrong place.”

Marc cracked a smile. “I’m not against capitalism. Don’t worry. Plus, I’ll be gone soon. Just need a jumping off point here. Or, more like a way to kill time — and people, I guess — until college.”

“College? How old  _ are  _ you?”

“Seventeen. Officially, I’m listed as an intern here, actually. It’s not normal, but also not quite unprecedented. Some of the heroes on the original team were real young.”

Her eyes drifted to the gin and tonic in my hand. “So you’re underage?”

“I trust you won’t tell anyone.” He slid her a drink, a broad grin on his face. “Look, everyone drinks pretty much by the time they turn fourteen. I just happen to have a job where my coworkers don’t care.”

“Fair enough, kid.”

Marc’s blood boiled. He despised it when someone called him ‘kid’ or any other annoyingly diminutive name. “It’s Marc. Marc Golden.” 

“Apologies, Golden boy.” That was even worse, but he didn’t want to let on to that. “Marc Golden, huh? Like ALG’s son?” Marc wished he had a name like his father’s that would work with just initials. Alexander Leopold Golden really was the perfect name. MMG just didn’t have that same ring. Though Marc Golden, plain and simple, did. It was a perfect American name.

“Suppose so. Strange coincidence, though it’s a fucking awesome name.”

She knit her eyebrows in confusion. “Unlucky one, considering the last person with that name mysteriously disappeared shortly after the assassination of his father.”

“Yeah, I guess. But it’s also quite the interesting name. If you take into account Alexander Golden’s love of history and politics, it really makes perfect sense. In Latin, the name Aurelius translates to ‘the golden one’, and the Roman version of Marc would obviously been Marcus. It’s a sort of joke only he understood and a promise to the world.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marc smirked. Talking about himself and the political successes of his father truly was fun. “Marcus Aurelius was the last of the five good emperors. The name Marc Golden was a sort of reference to the emperor, a joke. But it was evident that at least one of ALG’s son would be president, pretty much. And after the army one was a lost cause, it would fall on the second son, who was Marc. This was his way of saying that the original Marc Golden would be a hero, a great man, and someone who’d genuinely help the country.”

_ “If only the kid had lived.” _ She looked Marc dead in the eye, making him think that she knew more than she was letting on. There hadn’t been any documentation of supes with immortality other than him. And a coincidence is more believable than immortality.

He gulped. “If only.” An awkward pause between the two of them. “I mean, my first name isn’t even Marc. That’s my middle name It’s just that my real first name is super German, so my middle name was just way easier.” That part was actually true, but it was his father who made him go by his middle name.

“And what’s your  _ real  _ first name?”

“Melchior.” He smirked. That name was almost better than Marc Golden. “I think it means king, which is just about as close to the truth as it gets.”

She scoffed. “Well, shit, you have quite the ego, kid.” That was true, but he didn’t see it as wrong. “What, do you think that you’re going to take over, be some sort of ruler?” Of course Marc did. That was his destiny. He was going to be the president, one fucking day. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, about his ego. In order to be a politician, you needed a really big ego. What else would make you think that you had what it took to lead an entire country?

But, for some reason, Marc wanted to make a good impression. He didn’t want her to think of him as some sort of arrogant ass. “I’d like to be, if I’m being honest. I think I have what it takes. One day.”

“And how will you go from member of the Seven to president?”

That was something Marc hadn’t really thought of. “I suppose I’ll stay here until I go to college. I’ll leave the Seven and do a press conference explaining my real identity. I suppose I’d intern with Senator Petrelli while in college.” He’d been Marc’s favorite of New York’s senators since his first election. Sure, he was a little too moderate for his liking, but he still had some great ideas. “Representative at twenty-five and president ten years later.”

Her face scrunched up in disgust. “Petrelli? Why bother with him? All his views are total shit.”

Was she a goddamn republican? No! That couldn’t be! She seemed so cool. His father was the perfect democrat, the face of the goddamn party until his assassination. Marc was raised in just about the most political households ever. Every dinner table discussion found its way back to the actions of the current president or the war effort or the bills Senator Golden was pushing through. Marc tried not to get angry at people with different views than him, but it was tough, thinking of his father and what would help the family.

No true Golden would even remotely consider befriending a republican, let alone sleeping with one. “I . . . uhh . . . I mean, yeah. Petrelli is a good senator. He knows his shit. I like his policies and admire his successes. If anyone can get me a real foothold into the party, it’s him. Or would you rather I go with Neuman, who’s just about as radical as Robespierre and the Montagnards were.”

“Can’t go against your logic on that front, Golden boy. Though going for the minority leader feels a little like you’re selling yourself short.”

Marc shrugged, hiding his horror with an apprehensive smile. She  _ was  _ a republican. His father would never approve. But, on one hand, his father was dead. On the other, Marc was all that was left of the Golden family. It was his job to continue the family line, their honor. “It’s 2020. Elections this year. So not quite the minority for long. And there’s no way in hell they’re electing Dakota Bob and Vic the Veep for another term.”

“Doesn’t change the senate race.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Can I count your vote? Golden for America 2040? I already designed my campaign logo.”

“Well, that just tips it over the edge. If it weren’t for that logo, I don’t know if you’d have my vote. But I suppose I’ll vote for Golden. Blue or red?”

A smirk touched his lips. “Bright fucking blue, of course. What else? I hope that doesn’t change anything. Look, I know big corporations like Vought are mostly conservative, which makes sense. This will help me with the middle to right. My actions while here — what I say on talk shows, the rep I build — will help me with the left. Everyone will love me.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Love is useless. Hate and fear are—”

“—for dictators. Hitler, Stalin, Napoleon. There’s a fine line between fear and respect. It’s the different between dictator and honorably heroic leader. A little bit of fear is always healthy, whether that be fear of what your opponent will do or fear of some impending threat like climate change or terrorism. But you can’t just run on fear. Respect of your past achievements, your character, and your beliefs. And a genuine love of you and what you stand for. Hate has no place in the equation of the perfect presidential candidate. It’s 10% fear, 60% respect, and 30% love.”

“Someone’s thought this through.”

“You should hear my voting model. This one’s not just an equation; it’s a graph!” Why was he getting so worked up over goddamn political science? Possibly the least attractive thing was spouting off facts about graphs. “Shit, sorry. I’m being weird. Just politics is sort of what I grew up with. My destiny, if you go in for that Calvinist crap.”

She burst out laughing. “If I remember correctly, you’re booked for Capes for Christ in a few weeks. Not the best thing to be saying.”

“Vought wants me religious. So be it. I’ll pose for cameras and smile and quote the Bible. Ezekiel 25:17 — ‘The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness.’”

“For an atheist, you know your shit.”

It was his turn to laugh. “I know my Quentin Tarentino.  _ Pulp Fiction _ . One of the quotes from the movie was that Bible verse. And that was my favorite goddamn movie for a while. Now, I’d say it’s  _ Dead Poets’ Society _ . No more mercenaries and washed up boxers for me.”

“That makes a lot more sense. But you need to know a lot more than that to please the devout fuckers.”

“Why? John just has one verse he repeats, and it’s far more fucked up than mine.”

“John? Who’s John?”

Marc cursed under his breath. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I shouldn’t have said that. John is Homelander’s real name. But never call him that in front of him. Please. He’ll know it was me who told you.”

“So what? Will he laser you? Punch your head in?” He stayed quiet, and inhaled sharply. “Oh. Shit. He  _ will _ . Won’t he? What, does he beat the Seven into submission?” Everything was supposed to be a joke, but it was entirely true. “Okay, fine. Loosen up a bit, Golden boy. Just tell me what I got myself into. I’m stuck here too, you know. I deserve to know.”

“You got past your first day, right?” She nodded hesitantly. “And has John had any . . .  _ talks  _ with you?” She shook her head, unsure of what I meant. “You’re probably in the clear, then. He’s too focused on his own personal campaigns to take time with you.”

“Okay, you lost me. What do you mean by all of that?”

His breath hitched. What came next? He wasn’t about to tell the girl he liked about being raped. By a  _ man _ . “Nothing. He just likes scaring new team members, roughing them up, you know. But he’s terrifying with me sometimes. Other times, he’s really nice, like a wannabe father figure. I don’t know what else to say. Don’t step out of line. Don’t disagree. Be powerful, but not enough to overthrow him.”

“I’m not going to walk on eggshells to appease some asshole. And neither should you. Everyone cowering in fear in front of him is pointless. You and I are powerful supes. So are Maeve and Noir and everyone else. Why are all of you still scared? Together, we can put him in his place, become just as important as him.” A hand on his shoulder . . .

. . . No, no, no! Not fucking again! Thank God he was in his uniform, with its stiff leather over a vinyl codpiece. Didn’t reveal anything. She wouldn’t find out, if he could keep the redness in his face under control. “That sounds pretty awesome. But we need time. I don’t like John, but I need him to succeed. People love him. With his help, they can love me too. I’ll keep your offer in mind, though. Nothing would be better than being the new face of the Seven, the next Homelander.”

“You could never be the next Homelander.” Marc’s face must’ve looked like a sad little puppy dog just then. “Sorry. It’s true. Too scrawny. Too weak.” What, was she Ashley, but actually powerful? “Too smart.” He started to like her more. “Too goddamn diplomatic.” Holy shit, Marc loved this woman.

“Th-thank you! I mean,  _ I _ knew all that. It’s nice to know that others see my infinite potential as well.”  _ Arrogant ass. _ Two words that defined Marc very well, in that moment more than any other. His problem went away. Marc thought of what to do next. Maybe awkward charm and political strategy. Now, he was even better at those two things than being an arrogant ass.

What was his endgame here? Sleeping with Stormfront? World domination? Both?

“Don’t get cocky. You’re not ready to be a leader yet. You know, I understand your plan now. Learn from Homelander, or at least the good parts of him. Then you venture into the political world. You’re going to succeed. You’re going to go far, Golden boy.” And that was all Marc wanted to hear.


End file.
